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DECEMBER: MARY TO P.B.SHELLEY
Ned Condini
Many the things I go back to for your sake.
Flowers, for instance. Anemones, wild roses,
jonquils: I love to see them grow.
As a girl, I wandered out to pick them,
press them between the pages of my books.
Often, an untamed urge flows through your fingers
and takes me by the hand and brings me to
something much stronger--
if only I had sense enough to pursue it
across this crusty snow.
JANUARY SLEEPS IN THE BONE-CHILLING AIR
Ned Condini
January sleeps in the bone-chilling air
where fields lie blasted, shorn of stem and tendril.
Crouched in the wilted vineyard, twisted gnomes
of rugged arms brace themselves for the wind.
The grass is scant & trees are leafless where
fruit hung full lately. Yet look! Standing up straight
on the horizon a glittering dominion
of blue proceeds forever. Just as the mountain,
the forest, each in particular beauty will know
the cold sky; so this bare valley. Even dormant acres
have a perfection. Theirs the stern composure
of earth waiting to wake us with her treasures
MARCH SONG
Ned Condini
I sing your spruce fields, March,
your fun and games, strong month,
on roads freed by the sun. Dappled archangel,
a rooster shines on top of a roof,
ruffling the sleeping herds. I also sing
man married to his spade, whose feet bring forth
the pink of bushes, green man, balance of silence,
startling the muted trees, the so-missed woman
coming down shapely, dragging in tow the sea.
We must keep quiet, now, kneel down to kiss
the grass, its leaves bright blades that choke my voice.
Let water, stones, blue clouds, flowered banks speak,
time’s lemon robe and the springing jade light live.
NOVEMBER
Ned Condini
grapes gather amber
surface sun-like amidst mulberry bushes
your brightness darkens on vines blunted by shadow
and it’november, love
OCTOBER, YELLOW LEAVES
Ned Condini
October, yellow leaves
side by side with the green.
The whole wood pink
and a hush in the air, whiteness of steeples.
In silence,
the future already blooms.
One more spring. One more chance
APRIL
Ned Condini
My house of cherry, my
April bark, my bride’s veil,
flavor spiced in the dark,
ripe honeydew, my sail
be my not taken prisoner
just as in merriment
lips without effort glean
a face’s lineaments.
And I’ll bury my rage,
embroider drought with spring,
pour drinks into your mouth,
set your heart on the wing.
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